Reckoning
by rollwithbutter
Summary: Continuation to "Revival". Mitchell reveals his demons, but can he conquer them with help? AU to season 3's ending.
1. Chapter 1, The Thunderin' Sky

**Author's Note: This will make next to no sense if you don't read the first part, which can be found under my stories titled "Revival". This will most likely be a three part tale. Again, I'm stuck on series three, I've ignored the wolf shape bullet, Herrick's return, Annie/Mitchell romance, and Richard Hargreave didn't meet his messy end after all (Because he was kind of fun in a kinked up way, wasn't he?). Elise is an OC. I'm still a bit rocky with this Doc Manager business, so if anything looks funky, sorry in advance.**

**Your usual Disclaimer: I don't own Being Human or anything to do with it. **

**PS: Reviews have been known to speed updates along. :)**

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**CHAPTER 1 – The Thunderin' Sky**

What good am I if I know and don't do

if I see and don't say

if I look right through you

if I turn a deaf ear to the thunderin' sky

what good am I?

- Bob Dylan, The Thunderin' Sky

George Sands peered out from behind sun-faded curtains to stare out at a small dooryard. A chill mist had crept in from the seafront and had persisted throughout the afternoon, obscuring most of the hilly street and surrounding houses. The street lamps tried their best, but were unable to break through to give any relief. Even the wheeling gulls had abandoned their scavenging to stalk the rooftops and wait for the fog to lift.

Despite the weather, Mitchell had been sitting on the front stoop of their rundown B&B steadily chain smoking for the past hour or more. He was hunched over his tucked up knees, wet hair obscuring his face and dangling maddeningly in his eyes. _How can he stand it like that?_ George wondered in spite of the seriousness of his current train of thought. Mitchell seemed to be oblivious to the cold and the uncomfortably damp cement that he was sitting on. George didn't think that he had moved at all since he had last checked on him fourteen minutes ago, unless you counted his lighting another cigarette.

George pursed his lips in concern. Something had been steadily eating away at his friend ever since they had left Bristol. At first George had let it pass, conveniently allowing himself to rationalize it away as Mitchell's grief over their loss of Annie, but deep down he had known that there was more to it than that. After Annie's rescue from purgatory, Mitchell's spirits had improved briefly, and there had been a complete hiatus in his misery shortly after Elise's arrival. But now, after almost two weeks with no word or sign from Elise, Mitchell had drifted back into his brooding silence. Knowing his vampire friend as he did, George saw that whatever was going on in his mind was something ugly and sinister; Something that didn't bear looking at too closely without altering their tightly woven surrogate family circle.

A part of George wished that Mitchell would just open up and confide in him. His other half, however, the complacent, selfish and weak half, wanted him to keep it locked away where it couldn't upset the balance of this life that they had just begun to rebuild. There was not much chance that Mitchell would raise the subject on his own; George had already shut him down once, and Mitchell, usually reticent to share his feelings even with proper encouragement, would never chance a second rejection.

George reflected guiltily on that moment. He had wanted things to remain as they were. It was incredibly selfish of him, he knew. Here he was, with Nina and a baby on the way. Their lives were already about to change, and for him, it was all going to be for the better. The price of keeping his happy bubble from bursting was sacrificing his best friend's peace of mind. He should have allowed Mitchell to unburden whatever it was that ate at his conscience, but he hadn't been able to get around his own cowardice.

Mitchell finally stood stiffly and ground out his last cigarette out with the toe of one worn boot. He turned to go back into the house and George let the dusty curtains fall shut and quickly decamped to the kitchen. The duel banging of the front doors was followed by Mitchell's heavy tread as he slowly climbed the stairs. If he left his room at all anymore it was only for work, smoke breaks, and aimless long walks that took him God only knew where. George sighed and resolved to make things right. This had to come to a head, and soon. He could no longer stand by and watch as his friend unravelled before him.

* * *

Upstairs, Mitchell let himself fall wearily onto his bed. He stared at the discolored ceiling with lazy, unfocused eyes, then ground at them angrily with the heels of his hands. He couldn't recall when he had last slept. Despite all of the natural health benefits he experienced as a vampire his skin was waxy and pale, and his eyes were underscored by dark, inky crescents. Exhausted as he was, he refused to close his eyes; He preferred his unappealing view of the stains and fissures that covered the ceiling to the visions that would inevitably be waiting behind his closed lids.

He let his thoughts wander and naturally they settled on Elise. He wondered what she was doing right now. There wasn't much chance of her ever returning, he supposed. He held on to no misguided hopes on that score. He could have gone to find her if she were still where George had transformed that night, but he didn't want to force his presence on her if it was unwanted. He could only assume that she had seen the light and was purposely keeping away from him. He snorted in self-disgust; she had probably sensed how completely unbalanced he was.

He allowed his eyes to drift shut to call up the image of her face. If he concentrated hard enough he thought he might be able to hear her laugh, at once ferocious and bell-like. The features that he had memorized were beginning to become indistinct in his mind; Lush, tumbling curls; The flashing green, penetrating eyes of a hunter; Lips parted slightly, tasting the air; a wild thing, scenting her prey. Mitchell's head drooped slowly onto his shoulder, his breath coming slow and unneeded in his accidental sleep.

He was bathed in a weak green light. All around him it pulsed sickly until it became a sound, a discordant, flickering rhythm that thrummed in the deepest recesses of his mind. A pounding, like digging, like a pickax loosening the soil.

Like it was searching for something long buried.

Up ahead in the light a figure darted, lithe and quick; Elise. She bounded ahead of him in the darkness towards the source of the scant light and his heart rose into his throat in alarm. Whatever waited there was nothing that he wanted Elise to see. He tried to call out to warn her off, but his cries were choked by a cloying, metallic taste; Blood, from the metaphoric heart in his throat, he supposed.

He started after her, the footfalls of his boots reverberating alarmingly off close and narrow walls. They seemed to be running in some sort of a tunnel. Her hair flared out behind her as she ran and he was reminded of someone...

Mitchell frowned in his sleep and cut off the small tug at his memory. He wasn't interested in following that particular breadcrumb trail, he only wanted to see Elise again. Back in his dream, he focused on running, pumping his legs faster and closing the distance between them. Elise was running full-out now, and he could hear her ragged breathing and the crashing of air in her lungs as he closed in. He realized suddenly how good it felt to run. It was surprisingly liberating to chase and to... _hunt_. His instinct cried out for it, for the satisfaction of a pleasure long denied.

He reached a hand out ahead and his fingertips brushed the ends of her flying hair. As he fingered the loose strands sudden warning bells went off, clanging and gonging in his head. He cried out, his voice no longer sealed off with the thick taste of blood. Elise whirled around, coming to an abrupt halt to confront him in the near-claustrophobic confines of the tunnel. The walls loomed closer and the alarms that rang in his ears grew louder. He saw with rising horror the face that she had turned to him. The siren in his head changed its pitch, becoming more shrill and insistent. It was screaming with human voices, he belatedly realized.

Light flared blindingly around them, somehow both green and red now. For a blissful moment it eclipsed the horrible face that tore tauntingly at his memory. Elise laughed, an eerie, animal and phantasmal sound. It was joined by a growing cacophony of human wails, and as the sickly light dimmed Mitchell saw that it was not from Elise's mouth that the horrible laugh had issued, but from Daisy's.

A new voice was screaming now; It was his own.

Mitchell turned to flee but immediately lost his footing on something viscous and slick. He fell heavily, face first, his forehead glancing painfully off the ground. His vision swam and he lay stunned until he became aware that his cheek was pressed into something warm and wet. Something, Oh God, something sticky, metallic and alluringly sweet. Licking his lips, he raised his head and found himself greeted by a pale visage leering toothlessly mere inches from his face. The creature's flesh was caught up in slow decay, and rivulets of blood streamed from its eyes as it chittered and wailed accusingly.

Mitchell flinched and rolled away from the rotting specter only to be met with another grotesque form clacking it's empty jaws at him. Now he saw that there were many other faces there on the ground with him, crowding closer and closer, and that this was where the screams in his ears had been coming from. Blood poured from their open mouths and pooled around him, gleaming red then green in the maddening subterranean light.

Daisy/Elise advanced on him, scattering bleeding heads in her wake. Her elongated fingers ended in poisonous, glistening talons and her face morphed rapidly back and forth between his worst horror and an unattainable dream. Leaning down, she ripped at his hair and lifted his head up off of the ground to force him to confront the crawling nightmares that gathered around them. With her free hand she thrust one of the gushing faces up to his mouth, holding it against him with a malicious grin as he struggled to push it away. He recoiled, disgusted, and tried to pull away but found that he was frozen in place. Not with fear, or rage, but with a sickening desire that he could feel straight down to his bones. Horrified, he felt his eyes shift black before the rise of his ever-present thirst. The sweet, metallic tang in the air was too much for him to resist any longer, he had to-

"_DRINK!_" The Daisy/Elise creature triumphantly howled. "_Drink, and watch your soul wither!_"

Mitchell bolted awake, jamming his fist to his mouth to hold back the scream that had ripped itself free. He was shaking and drenched in a cold sweat, sobbing as he gasped for air in short, staccato breaths. He sat frozen for some time, locked in the remnants of his nightmare and awash with terror. Slowly, the adrenaline that coursed through him began to subside. The tunnel walls of his vision were replaced by the familiar blue walls of his room, and the light that fell across his bed was not green, but silver; nothing more sinister than the cool, diffuse glow of an overcast Wales sky.

He focused on quieting his sobs and trying to enforce a sense of calm that he knew he couldn't reasonably expect to feel. Finally he gave up and threw himself back on the bed. He groped around the twisted covers until he located a damp pillow and held it tight against his face to stifle any lingering sound that might unwillingly escape.

* * *

George hesitated outside Mitchell's door, his face a mask of indecision. His hand hovered frozen and raised as if about to knock. He listened to the muffled cries of his friend until Mitchell managed to pull himself together and the sounds trailed off into a choked silence. After a moment of deceptive calm, George slowly lowered his arm and turned away. Tomorrow, for better or worse, this would come to an end.


	2. Chapter 2, A Neighborly Visit

Chapter 2 - A Neighborly Visit

Richard Hargreave stumbled drunkenly up the brick walkway leaning heavily against his tiny wife. The sky was just beginning to lighten with the first promise of morning and the streets and paths that they had followed home were still damp with the heavy mist of the evening before.

Ever since they had agreed to loan Seven out to Mitchell for the week, Richard and Emma had been forced to go out for their debauched entertainments, and wandering home in the wee hours of the morning had become something of a temporary routine for them. They had taken to visiting a few of the more adventurous clubs that Barry had on offer, which had relieved some of their boredom, but had done nothing to assuage their growing thirst. After so many soft and easy years they had become unaccustomed to going so long unsated, and they were returning home in a black humor.

Richard fished the house key from his pocket as they reached the front door. He thrust the key at the lock and grunted in surprise when it met with no resistance. He leaned down to detect the problem and blinked owlishly at where the lock should have been; There was no lock because there was no door. He shook his head to ward off lingering Vodka Collins cobwebs. With some confusion he saw that the front door, which he knew full well that he had locked himself upon leaving, was already open wide and yawning into the dark foyer. He exchanged a wary glance with Emma. None of the vampires in the Barry area were powerful enough to cross a threshold uninvited; could a human have been foolish enough to break into their home? He chuckled. _There_ was an appealing thought!

Emma took her husband by the arm and simpered her pinched, coquette's smile, looking for all the world as though they were about to step out on a much anticipated date. She sincerely hoped that their burglar, whoever it was, remained inside. Her mouth had actually begun to water.

"Did you order takeout?" She whispered expectantly and bared her teeth in what was perhaps meant as an impish grin.

Together they sashayed into the dark hallway. They paused in the foyer to allow time for their senses to become attuned to the darkness. The house was silent; no human heart beat within earshot. They could detect no human smell save Seven's, which was was now over a day old. Something lingered, however... a faint scent, deep and woodsy, as though a fresh breeze had blown in through ferns and field. Coming to the conclusion that a good meal might not be on order after all, Emma frowned and glanced hesitantly at Richard, who licked his lips nervously.

Ahead, a diffuse blue light danced and flickered, beckoning to them from the direction of the living room; The television had been left on, although there was no sound. Warily they groped their way forward, eschewing the light switch on the wall behind them to avoid alerting their intruder to their return.

They rounded the corner slowly, prepared for all manner of assault. When no immediate outburst of violence greeted them, Emma dropped her defensive posture and quickly scanned the room. She could see nothing out of place except for the television having been left on, and there was no one else there. She relaxed slightly. Richard, however, who was standing on Emma's right and therefore closer to the pristine white living room set, sucked in an alarmed breath, drawing his wife's attention to the sofa where he stared wide-eyed.

Barely visible above the top of the sofa was a flourish of dark curls, attached to a figure so small that Emma had missed it entirely. It was a woman, no bigger than a child, sitting with her back to them and flipping rapidly through the channels as if completely engrossed by the muted television set. Emma thought that there was something horribly familiar about the figure and her stomach somersaulted alarmingly.

Richard and Emma huddled instinctively together to present a uniform front and crept around the sofa. The woman looked up at their movement, and the face that was illuminated in the light of the flat screen was not one to comfort them. "Elise!" gasped Emma. Richard could only goggle foolishly, his eyes bulging slightly.

The cause of their alarm uncurled herself and rose from her comfortable roost to trip daintily across the room and greet them. "Emma, dear, it's been too long!" Emma flinched visibly as Elise took her hands and presented her cold cheeks with two airy kisses. Neither woman was inexperienced enough to be fooled by such empty pleasantries; This was the superficial greeting of two women who violently loathed one another. Richard stood by, mouth open and still speechless. Elise turned to him next.

"And Richard! Still lording over all of Barry, the King of the Carpets?" She offered him her hand and he automatically took it and pressed it to his lips. Damn the woman, he hadn't meant to give her any such mark of respect but she brought it out of him so easily. Her eyes twinkled as if she could read his thoughts and he shivered involuntarily.

"We thought you- We didn't realize that you were back in town. Elise, it's a pleasure, please sit." He said, outwardly regaining some composure although his mind was still reeling. She allowed him to take her arm and steer her gallantly back to her original seat. Emma and Richard took their places across from her, sitting together as closely as possible. Elise thought they looked like two mice huddled at the back of a cage, wincing as the great hand from above reached down about to pluck them up. Her sardonic chuckle was not lost on the Hargreaves.

"I never left, actually. You might have known that if you had ever bothered yourselves with neighborly visits. Perhaps this time around we'll be a bit more attentive to each other."

"We did check- " He caught himself, realizing that perhaps admitting they had checked to make sure that she was gone (or better yet, dead) might be misconstrued as rude. "I mean, we did _visit_ once, but-"

Elise waved him off. "It's alright Richard. My feelings aren't hurt."

Emma, meanwhile, had gone to pour three glasses of wine from a dusty bottle at the liquor cabinet. She came around and offered a glass to both Richard and Elise, reserving one for herself to swirl about in an attempt at feigning airy nonchalance. Elise sniffed the contents of her glass condescendingly. "Wine? When I was last here I recall that you always had the most unbelievably fresh blood on tap."

"Our source is... unavailable." Richard replied evasively.

"Ah, Seven. Too bad, he has quite a distinct flavor." Elise smiled drowsily behind her glass as her words sunk in and had their desired effect. The Hargreaves sputtered and started up in their seats.

"You- You know Seven? But how? He wasn't here before-" Richard blinked nervously. Emma dabbed frantically at a blotch of red wine that had sloshed onto the couch during the onslaught of her initial surprise.

"He's an acquaintance I've just recently had the pleasure of making." She laughed inwardly as she watched their minds whirring in overtime, trying to sniff out her connection. "As is Mitchell. I believe he may be a friend of yours as well?"

Richard got there first. _Mitchell's mystery woman,_ he realized. "Mitchell, yes, of course. I can't recall that he ever mentioned you. How strange."

"I'm sure it must have slipped his mind. He's had rather a lot on his plate."

"It's unfortunate that he didn't speak up. If we had known that he was an acquaintance of yours, we might have, er, handled things differently when we last spoke." _That bastard_, Richard thought. Mitchell had sat there smiling, letting them think that they would have the satisfaction of holding something over him, when really he had just been gloating the whole time. He had known that they would never be allowed to collect on their bargain. _Leave it to that jumped-up pretty boy to hook the biggest fish in the pond_, Richard thought despondently.

Elise was beginning to tire of maintaining her friendly demeanor. It was time to get to the point of her visit. "I can only assume that if he forgot to mention me, then it must also have slipped his mind to inform you that the use of Seven was for _my_ personal benefit." _Here it comes_, Richard swallowed and Emma trembled behind him like a dog facing a rolled up newspaper.

"I know that you would never expect to collect any sort of _payment_ for such a neighborly gesture." Elise's keen eyes glinted dangerously in the flickering blue light.

_And there it was._ "Of course not, no! The mistake was entirely on our side!" _Goddamn you Mitchell! _Richard seethed.

"How good to hear. It's so refreshing to see someone stand up and take responsibility for their mistakes." Elise replied acidly. She'd had enough of the simpering Hargreaves. Her business concluded, she stood and held out her hand, this time obviously intending for Richard to walk her to the door. He obediently rose and took her arm to lead her out, with Emma following meekly behind them. He delivered Elise to the door, which was still hanging open, and breathed a premature sigh of relief as she stepped across the threshold. Just as he was about to swing the door shut she turned and slipped her tiny foot between it and the doorjamb.

"Just in case I need to state the obvious," Elise said, pushing the door wide, all pretense at goodwill completely vanished, "The dogs are off limits. The ghost is off limits. And Mitchell is most _definitely_ off limits, from you and any other vampires as well. Don't think that you can hire someone else to do your dirty work without me finding out. If _anything_ happens to _any _of them, if Mitchell so much as cuts himself _shaving_, the blame will land squarely on you."

Elise leaned in to take hold of the doorknob, her face dangerously close to Richard's. "I'll be seeing you. Feel free to stop by if you ever need to borrow a cup of milk or sugar." She grinned, and with her free hand shoved Richard sharply back into the hall and swung the door shut, nearly taking the end of his nose with it.

_Well, at least I won't have to worry about Mitchell shaving_, Richard thought disjointedly as Elise's footsteps faded. There was a soft thud from behind him as Emma leaned heavily against the wall. He took her in his arms and petted the back of her hair consolingly. If this was the way that Mitchell wanted to play things then Richard would just have to call in some bigger fish himself. He pulled his cell from his pocket and selected a number from speed dial. It was answered on the first ring.

"It's Elise," he hissed, as Emma whimpered. "She's come back."

* * *

Alone on the walk, Elise allowed her shoulders to slump. It had now been about two weeks since she had fed from Seven. She had begun to feel the first warning pangs of blood withdrawal almost immediately after leaving Mitchell on the beach two weeks earlier. After so many years of going without, Seven's blood had swiftly brought on cravings that she had long ago stopped feeling. She had known that what she was about to experience was going to be unpleasant. Unwilling to let Mitchell see her in such a state, she had returned to her familiar woods and remained hidden until the sweats and shaking had finally subsided.

Today she had emerged, weak, but invigorated, and eager to rejoin Mitchell. Before she could go to him, however, there was the small chore of dealing with the Hargreaves before they caused him any trouble. What pathetic, soft, pampered vampires they had allowed themselves to become. She had known that they would give her no trouble, and she had been right; They had scraped and bowed and cowered, ready to agree to anything just to get her out the door.

Of course, Richard was on the phone right now, spreading the news of her miraculous return, but Elise planned to be long gone by the time any of his little friends could act on his information. After ten years of presuming her to be dead they would send only a small envoy to investigate the accuracy of his report. The Old Ones were predictable; They wouldn't waste their power and resources on unsubstantiated rumors, not even for her. Also, sending a small army to dispatch her would be an indirect admittance that they feared her, something that Edgar Wyndham and the others would rather die than allow to become public knowledge.

Elise straightened her shoulders and shook off all unpleasant thoughts of the Old Ones and their foolish vendettas. She would not allow them to blacken her day. Ahead on the street was parked a dated, but pristine, black Land Rover, and Elise pulled out the key that went to it. A decade in storage and it had started right up, she thought fondly as she climbed up into the high seat. The sun was rising now, peeping over the horizon and spreading its cheerful glare across the Rover's windshield. A smile danced across her lips as she squinted into the light and pulled away from the curb, impatient to greet Mitchell along with the new day.


	3. Chapter 3, If I Let You Go

**AN: It's been a while! I went and got myself distracted by the fabulous Kili (and Fili!). You know who I'm talking about... ) I think I need to re-watch some Being Human. Mitchell keeps turning into the cheerful, adorably inexperienced Kili in my mind, which does NOT work for these next few chapters! (Although it works for ****_me_****, heh heh... Sorry.) **

**Anyway, enjoy it, hate it, either way, review it!**

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**Chapter 3 - If I Let You Go**

The morning dawned bright and clear with no memory of the dense fog that had enveloped the coast the evening before. George and Annie sat together at the kitchen table huddled silently over cups of tea that had long ago given the last of their comforting warmth. Nina had already left to drop Seven off on her way to her morning shift over an hour ago. George had thought it best to put her absence to good use and had decided to hold their intervention with Mitchell while she would not be there to add fuel to the fire. As much as he truly loved her, George knew this conversation would likely be painful enough without Nina's stringent views and acid tongue. Annie had whole-heartedly agreed; She was uncomfortable enough with the idea of their confrontation as it was and wanted to keep it as peaceful as possible. Nina could be filled in later after things had settled down. _If_ they settled down, George amended.

Deep down, something was telling George that the life that they had built together was about to be lost, or at the very least irrevocably altered. He felt as though he were already grieving a great loss. Annie, for her part, felt like part of a waiting lynch mob. Of course she had noticed Mitchell's recent reticence around them, and since she didn't sleep herself she was more aware of the barrage of nightmares that had been plaguing him than any of the others; But for all that, she seemed unable to grasp that whatever Mitchell had done this time was probably beyond anything that they had had to deal with before in their cozy makeshift family. George could see that she sat across from him ready to admonish and forgive Mitchell, but he himself could hold on to no such delusions.

A shuffling from the landing above announced that Mitchell was blearily stumbling down the stairs. He headed for the kitchen from habit more than any real desire to eat, and as he pushed through the door Annie took in how haggard and strained he looked. At first he took no notice of his roommates seated at the table other than to grunt an empty and insincere 'g'mornin' on his way to the breadbox. He busied himself with the toaster for a time before seeming to sense that something was amiss. Hesitating with his jam-covered knife poised above his toast, he lifted his eyes to unwillingly meet theirs, and Annie saw that there was remorse in their brown depths, but no surprise. She thought that he must have been expecting this, maybe even wanting them to free him of whatever terrible secret burdened him. She felt tears threatening and willed herself to keep her face set and not to start things off with an Annie-esque display of waterworks.

Mitchell swallowed tightly, his mouth gone suddenly dry. Slowly he laid the knife on the rim of his plate and waited, staring resignedly at his cooling toast. Annie looked nervously from him to George, willing one of them to speak first. Mitchell remained silent.

George began.

"Once I said that I couldn't be your confessor," He said, managing to keep his voice mostly steady. "It was wrong of me to say that. It was selfish, and I should have listened to what you had to say. It was my duty as your _friend,_" His voice cracked slightly with barely restrained emotion. "And I'm asking you to give me a second chance now."

Mitchell was silent for a long time. When he looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed and glistening and he gave George a barely perceptible nod. It was too late now, he thought miserably. He had let things go for too long. He should have broken with them long ago, after getting Annie back. At least then they would never have had to learn of his latest horror and could have remembered him for what little good he had still possessed. They would never have had to find out what a worthless creature he truly was. With weakness and rage, he had slaughtered everything that they held dear, and once George and Annie were no longer a part of his life there would be nothing left to anchor himself to. Without them he would sink back into a life of violence and despair. It was only a matter of time now. He would see this to the end, though; He owed them that much. All he had left to offer them was the truth and his unflinching honesty. It would be his last act of friendship and love for them.

From his back pocket he pulled out a piece of folded, well-worn newsprint. With shaking hands he spread it out almost tenderly on the counter, pressing it flat for them to see. He noted with distaste that his palms were somehow both frigid and damp with sweat. He had never been so cold, he thought, as if his body was preparing him for his descent into numbness. He could find no words to explain the horrible thing that he had done, so without speaking he passed the crinkled paper to Annie and George and seated himself in an empty chair. He tucked his hands between his knees, uselessly trying to warm them, and bowed his head to let his hair fall forward and hide his face. He didn't think that he could bear to watch their warm, familiar faces grow cold and hard as they realized what he had done.

Annie moved closer to George as he smoothed out the page. It was a newspaper clipping, soft with repeated handling, as though Mitchell had folded it time and time again after many viewings. Staring back at them from the page were the faces of twenty people; men and women, young and old; A school teacher; A man leaving behind a wife and five children; A cancer survivor. George swallowed convulsively as he held the obituaries out to Mitchell. "Which one?" he whispered, tears in his eyes and the answer that he already knew showing on his face.

Mitchell shook his head wretchedly. "All of them," he whispered huskily in a tone so low that it was audible only to a werewolf. "I- It was all of them."

Annie gasped in understanding horror. She leaned against George, unconsciously distancing herself from Mitchell. George did not look away, although his mouth trembled and his eyes were swimming with unshed tears. Mitchell regarded him steadily. He and George had always been able to read one another so perfectly, even during the times when they hadn't really bothered to try because they were too busy being wrapped up in their own personal affairs. This was the end, their eyes told each other; Mitchell knew it, George knew it, and Annie, deep down, knew it too.

Annie was sobbing freely into George's shoulder. "Mitchell, my God, how could you do this? I don't understand! This isn't you! And all this time you've covered it up?" She turned her head from him in disgust. He could read it on both their faces, and it felt as though he were being slowly killed a second time. He couldn't face such an empty eternity without them. After having their acceptance and love it was unimaginable to exist without it. Annie, who was so trusting and giving. This was hurting her the most; Knowing that _he_ would be the one who finally caused her to lose her innocence, a purity that even _Owen_ had been unable to touch, was a splinter in his cold, dead heart. And George... George had known. George had known, and Mitchell had allowed him to become his accomplice. He had stained George's hands with blood that could never be washed clean.

"You'll never stop, will you? You can't." George spoke. It wasn't a question, really, just a conformation of a fact. Just George ticking off another box on an unsatisfactory evaluation. Mitchell shook his head again.

"I can't. I thought that I could, but it's always there, waiting. It always will be. I'm so sorry, George, Annie, I just-" His voice broke into a sob at last, but Annie only shook her head. He reined himself back in and nodded. "I'll go now. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." It was all that he could say and yet it meant nothing. All of the things that he'd wanted to say to them, how good they had been for him and how much they had helped to keep the monster at bay for so long... He wanted them to know that it wasn't they who had failed him, but he found that he couldn't put it all into words. Almost choking on his tears, he stood and turned his back on them. Then he simply walked away.

He could still hear Annie crying softly behind him as the door fell shut and a blanketing numbness set in. He was leaving, he wouldn't even pack his things. He would just let go and give in...

Mitchell stopped with his hand on the knob of the front door. He couldn't do it. He had fought for so long! If he left now, he would kill and kill until there was nothing of himself left, not even guilt, which had been his dominant emotion for so long. He thought of Ivan and how he had grown cold and indifferent; Mitchell didn't want to become like that. He thought of Elise, and how she had walled herself off for so long that she had blocked out the entire world around her and understood why. There was nothing for him now except a never-ending life full of remorseless killing. It wasn't a life worth living.

So here it was, his last stand against his bitter, all-encompassing hunger; He would fight back one last time.

Mitchell whirled from the door and stalked briskly over to the bar, finding energy in resolution. Scooping up the nearest bar stool, he swung it by the legs against the counters edge. It shattered, leaving him holding two rough stakes. He studied them both and winced involuntarily. They were sharp enough for the job, but splintered and jagged at the ends. He selected the neatest one and tossed the reject to the floor. His death wouldn't be clean or painless, but surely he deserved it this way.

George burst into the room followed by Annie to see what the noise had been. George saw the makeshift stake that Mitchell was holding and his blood immediately ran cold. He glanced at Mitchell, who seemed to be at war with himself, his eyes flashing violently back and forth between soulless black and humane brown.

Suddenly sorrowful brown eyes took control and Mitchell shoved the stake roughly at George, who took it in surprise. "George, I can't leave. You know what will happen if I do. You have to end me now." Mitchell was actually panting as if he were struggling physically against some invisible assailant. George now understood that the vampire within was fighting him for its life.

"No." George said, shocked.

"George, you don't understand, it's the only way that I can stop being this- this- _monster_, please! You know what I'll become if I leave! There will be blood on your hands if you let me walk out that door."

"There will be blood on my hands if I _don't_," George hissed. Surely this wasn't happening.

Mitchell actually smiled in pity. "It's a shit position, I know. But at least _my_ blood isn't innocent." _No, it's anything but that_, he thought bitterly. "Please, George, you can see that this is the right choice to make."

"No, Mitchell, this is absolutely insane! There's got to be some other way- "

"Another way to what?" Mitchell was yelling now, adrenaline fueling his growing desperation. "To have another go at staying clean? At playing human? You want me to go on pretending that I don't want to rip the throat out of every person I pass on the street until this _hunger_ builds up and I slip and take out another busload? Christ George, it's won! There's not even any 'it', there's only me, and that's all there ever was. _I'm_ the monster, and I _WANT_ to kill!" Mitchell's tears were flowing now, angry and miserable. "So please, please, just help me stop. I'm not strong enough to do it, but _you_ are. I don't want to see all of their faces anymore. They're always there, and I'm just so fucking _tired._"

He sank to his knees before a horrified George and Annie. George looked at the splintered stool leg that he held in his hand and shuddered. He looked from the stake to Mitchell, who knelt with his head down and shoulders heaving. George had seen so many things since he had become a werewolf, and dealt with more than he had ever thought himself capable of, but _this_? This was _Mitchell_ begging him to end his life. He just couldn't handle this.

George leaned down until he was looking Mitchell squarely in his tear stained face. Mitchell heard a thump behind him and blinked in surprised disappointment, understanding that George had leaned down only to reach around him and set the stake down on the living room table. He closed his eyes, feeling the last of his adrenaline fueled strength drain away. There was nowhere left for him to go from here. "George," he pleaded quietly one last time.

George had opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Annie gasped and George jumped a foot in the air, his nerves stretched to their limit. Everyone froze, unsure of what to do next.

"George, don't," Mitchell begged as George went to see out the window.

"I'm not bloody well about to do it with the Guides at the door, am I? For God's sake, keep quiet," said George a little cruelly, pushing Mitchell out of his way with his foot.

Mitchell sank back against a chair with a dejected moan as George shook him off and went for the door. Annie crept to Mitchell's side and leaned against him, trying to give him what little comfort she could with her calming presence. She couldn't forgive him, but the sight of him in such turmoil was unbearably pathetic to her. His hands lay open and listless at his sides and Annie twined her gossamer fingers through his. He let his head fall back, fighting against hopeless tears.

"Mitchell," she whispered. "This isn't the way. I'm not denying that what you did wasn't _beyond_ terrible, but please don't do this. I can't stand it if you do." She swallow hard and tried to force a comforting smile.

He bowed his head down to his raised knees. "What else is there? Annie, I've let this go on for too long, telling myself how good I am for even trying, but it's all just lies. If I were really able to stop I would have done by now. Can't you see that?"

There was no other solution that she could think of, but this was all still so wrong. The sound of unfamiliar footsteps caused Annie to look up curiously. Who could George have possibly allowed in at a time like this? Annie felt her face flush with anger as their visitor rounded the corner and became visible behind George. Of all the people that it could have been, and to show up _now_...

* * *

***I seem to recall George saying something about 'the witnesses at the door' at some point during some episode, so I get no credit for the 'Guides at the door' line. Honestly though, I can't quite remember. Must re-watch!**

**OK, sooooo... Here's the deal, I plan on stepping out of my comfort zone a little (a ****_LOT_**** actually) in a chapter or two, but I'd like your opinions. How do we feel about getting a bit... um... 'dirty'? Keep it clean(ish) or spice it up, give me your thoughts! **


	4. Ch 4, Can't Catch Me Now I've Fallen

**AN: Oh my gosh, I am soooo sorry it took so long to get back to this! I got distracted with Hobbit whatnots and then totally lost the flow for this piece. Someone brought my attention back with a review, so yay reviewers! Guess that's what they're for, motivation! :) Anyway, hopefully I didn't lose the gist too badly. I'm still ignoring season 4. My vampire physics and biology will likely be different from anything they revealed past season 3's end, so ignore anything that seems wrong by canon standards. Thanks for still reading!**

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CHAPTER 4 - Can't Catch Me Now I've Fallen

Seems like all my bridges have been burned

But you say that's exactly how this grace thing works

- _Mumford & Sons,_

_Roll Away Your Stone_

* * *

Mitchell glanced up through his damp lashes at the sound of footsteps, expecting to see George returning alone. He was horrified when a second figure emerged from behind George's slumped shoulders. When he saw who it was Mitchell sprung up from the floor and turned away, hands shooting up to cover his face in agitation. Elise stood behind the werewolf, wide-eyed and pale.

Annie felt a deep anger well up inside of her. After two weeks without sending Mitchell any word and without a thought for his feelings, Elise thought that she could just glide back into his life? Annie was sure that Mitchell would never have sunk this low if Elise had stayed around for him the way he had been strong for her when she had needed it. And Elise had been a complete stranger to him at the time!

Annie narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to voice her opinion but stopped at the look on Elise's sorrowful face. She had eyes for no one but Mitchell, and breezed past Annie as if she were empty air.

"Mitchell, Mitchell," Elise soothed, gathering him into her arms. He stood rigid and frozen, unable to return her embrace, rooted in place by too many warring thoughts and emotions.

"Mitchell, shh..." Elise reached up to stroke his hair tenderly and burrowed her face into his chest. Slowly, mechanically, he brought an arm up to encircle her slender waist and lowered his face into her hair. Then, as though a spell had been broken, he crushed her to him and finally allowed the huge wracking sobs that he had been holding in to escape.

She held him tightly and let him cry, unashamed. After a time she began to murmur in a gentle, foreign croon. Her voice was low and guttural with a soothing lilt, although the words were unrecognizable. Mitchell's convulsive gasps grew weaker. Her words were almost a chant now, and his panicked, ragged breath began to slow to match the flowing cadence.

"I told you to wait," she breathed against his cool throat. "I told you to wait for me."

Mitchell only shook his head. "It was already too late. It was only ever a moment."

George had turned away at first, feeling like he was intruding on the pair. Now he rounded on them and produced the jagged stake from behind his back.

"Do you see what he means to do?" he spat, and thrust the blunt end toward Elise. "Do you see what he's asked _me_ to do?"

Elise paled visibly as she took the weapon from George. Her hand shook briefly before she brought it back under her tight control. Looking sharply at Mitchell, who refused to meet her searching gaze, she asked, "Is this really what you want?" Her voice was remarkably cool and even. He looked down where she stood just under his chin, so small and clutching the huge wooden stake. The corner of his mouth trembled but he made no answer.

She went on, her voice dangerously soft. "You have no idea what it is to be truly tired of life." Mitchell opened his mouth to argue but she cut him off, eyes flashing. "No. Don't you _dare_ try to say that you do. You're not tired of _life_, you're tired of _killing_. There's a difference!"

He shook his head, trying to clear it and regain his sense of purpose. He was so lost and tired now, and she was purposely driving him into uncertainty.

"Let me help you," Her tone was soft and caressing again, a soothing balm to his overstrung nerves. He felt himself capitulating, giving in to her sway, and made one last desperate appeal to George.

"George, you've seen the things that I've done and you know how many times I've tried to become something better and failed. You can see that there's nothing left to do. She doesn't know, she doesn't understand." He took a step away from Elise and spread his hands wide before his friend.

George ignored him and looked around at Elise. "I want to know what you believe. He says there's nothing left to try. Do you think that's true?"

The corner of Elise's mouth tipped up in a grim pantomime of a smile. "No. He can't have tried _everything_. Not properly, at any rate."

"And why do you think that?" George asked, ever thorough, checking all the boxes.

"Because," Elise reasoned, "_If_ he had tried absolutely everything, under exactly the precise conditions necessary, then we wouldn't be standing here right now having this discussion."

"A fair point." For some reason George had expected as much. He turned back to Mitchell and faced him steadily. "Your answer is no. No, I will not kill you, my best friend. Not until you've exhausted every single possibility, no matter how ridiculous or remote. If Elise says that she can help you, then you're going to let her try. What you've done is _absolutely_ beyond unspeakable, but you can't make it right like this. You've been given an eternity. It's a curse and a blessing, but you need to use it to _atone_ for the things that you've done, even if you don't think it's possible."

Mitchell lowered his arms in defeat. He had no fight left. A chill blanket of numbness settled over him. The black hole of feeling came as a relief after being so long in a state of heightened, raw emotion. He gratefully allowed his mind to shut down and stood lost and alone, at the center of the turmoil that he had created.

Elise crossed over to Annie and George. "Whatever it is that he's done, however horrible it may be, he needs you now. If you've ever loved him, don't turn him away. You think he's been weak," she said, and her tone was accusing as she speared each of them with her sharp, unflinching gaze. "You have to understand, to go with no blood, the way he's done for so long, is almost unheard of. He's lasted much longer than I ever- than I have ever seen before. It was never the answer. The problem isn't him, it's the technique. _He_ is still in there; If you kill him, even if he's _asked_ you to, you'll be murdering a good soul that could have been saved. Remember that, no matter what he may tell you to the contrary."

George narrowed his eyes. He had caught her slight stumble and it brought to mind something odd that he had noticed earlier. He leaned closer and sniffed. "You don't drink blood," he said. "You smell different now, like Mitchell. Not like before, after you fed from Seven."

"I don't drink human blood," she clarified simply. She waited for the distinction to register.

"Animals?" Annie asked after a beat. "But that's so simple, surely Mitchell would have tried that already." She turned to Mitchell questioningly.

Mitchell shifted uncomfortably before deigning to respond. "Of course I did, most of us have, at one time or another. It was one of the first things I ever tried. I'd have been stupid not to. But animal blood is flat, like donor blood from the hospital. It didn't satisfy the hunger."

"It was missing something," Elise nodded in agreement with his assessment.

Exasperated, Mitchell threw up his hands. "Then what good will it do? This is a waste!"

"No. No, what you were _about_ to do, _that_ would have been a waste!" Elise hissed, whipping around to fully face him and abruptly tossing aside her exceptional, ever present self-control. Her eyes slammed from green to black and her fangs slid out fully extended from their sheaths in her anger. Mitchell's eyes widened and he actually took a step back. He had never seen her roused to such a passion before, and she was sublime.

She came at him then and he flinched as she pounded his chest with an open palm. He reached up instinctively to hold her and she paused, breathing hard. With great effort she gathered herself together and slipped back under her mantle of tight composure. When she looked up at him it was once again with her own clear green eyes. She shook off his restraining arms and took a step away, then asked in a perfectly even tone, "What was it that you tried?"

"What?" asked Mitchell, clearly confused. What did it matter? An animal was an animal.

"What. Animal." Elise enunciated very carefully, as if he were being exceptionally obtuse. George and Annie turned to stare at Mitchell while he shuffled his feet evasively. When after a few moments no one had spoken, he mumbled something under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" George asked, unable to believe his ears. "Did you just say- "

"It was a Pekingese! Alright?" Mitchell snapped testily. _God, would this day never end?_ "I was there, it was there, and I was fucking _hungry_!" George laughed then, a high, thin, taut sound. Mitchell glowered. "At the time, I figured it was the family dog or the whole fucking family," he finished, purposely vicious in his choice of words to shame George.

George's laugh died in his throat. Mitchell paced the room, clearly flustered. "I'm glad you think it's a joke," he said, shooting daggers at George, who shook his head violently. Mitchell was ashamed that he had made George feel guilty. He knew George hadn't been able to help it; It had mostly just been a reaction to relieve tension. George was always a good one for ill-timed, nervous laughter. Mitchell dealt with stress in a different way, with an acid tongue, always knowing how to best cut. _Another sin_, he thought miserably. There was no shortage.

Elise went to Mitchell's side and took up his hands. He immediately gave up stalking the room and became still. She seemed to have a calming effect on him, George noticed, and vice versa. "You're right, its blood didn't satisfy the hunger because it was missing something. Let's call it a 'life force,' for lack of a better term." She explained.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Annie interjected. "It was alive, wasn't it?"

Mitchell nodded his agreement. "It just doesn't work. I'm sorry. Maybe I'm different from you in that respect." _Maybe I'm weaker_, was the unspoken thought they all heard.

Cupping his rough face in her hands, Elise explained. "It was _domesticated_. Domestic animals won't work. Their will to live isn't the same as what you'll find in a wild creature. Domestic animals are kept and cosseted until there's no true instinct for survival anymore, and _that's_ what we taste. _That's_ what satisfies the thirst. It's like all the fierce desire and hunger for life has been bred right out of them."

At this explanation a glimmer of hope shone in George's eyes and he exchanged a look with Annie. Mitchell however, was unresponsive. He was far beyond getting his hopes up after almost a century of disappointments and failure. George recognized the look that settled heavily on his face; in lighter situations he secretly thought of it as Mitchell's "sulk" face. Now, however, his brooding expression meant his friend had thrown up a wall blocking out anything else they might say, no matter how logical the reasoning. It wasn't a sulk, but apathy, which was far more alarming.

Annie was looking uncomfortably between George and Mitchell. "Even if it works," she began in a shaking voice, "we can't- "

Elise cut her off with a shushing hiss and hurried back to them, leaving Mitchell out of earshot of their whispers. "Annie, I know what you're going to say. You can't take him back. You think you need to punish him in some way. You're too damned wrapped up in black and white morality!"

Annie glared. "But he's _killed_ people! How can you expect us to just let that go?"

"He killed people before this. You knew and let it go," Elise pointed out to Annie's discomfort. Her actions did have a certain ring of inconsistency when you put it that way. But Mitchell had seemed so different then, so filled with optimism. This Mitchell was a dark shadow of that earlier man, and somehow Annie didn't feel she knew him at all.

Elise continued. "What would you have him do, Annie? What would satisfy your notion of justice? You've already made it clear that suicide isn't an acceptable option, and while I of course agree wholeheartedly there, I can't see that ostracization is going to be helpful either. Do you write him off? Let him hang himself with his past? Or do you help him? What if it were drugs and not blood, would you feel differently then?"

"It's all apples and oranges! Your average drug addict doesn't go around slaughtering entire trainloads of people!" Annie exclaimed far too loudly. Mitchell winced. He looked away, hugging his arms miserably across his chest.

Elise shook her head wonderingly. "Oh Annie, don't kid yourself. They simply aren't the ones pulling the triggers. They aren't faced with the messy reality of their addictions; the dirty consequences, innocent bystanders gunned down... They don't have to see the casualties they leave lying in the shadows. Mitchell does; He has to face them every second of every day, and it takes a braver person to do that than it does to hide behind some self-deluded perception of innocence by lack of direct involvement. There's always someone out there to blame, if you care to look. The difference is that Mitchell doesn't point the finger at anyone but himself. So you tell me you won't help him beat this, now that there's a realistic chance for him to do so!"

Annie's lip trembled. "We can't go back to what we were, that's all I'm saying," she whispered.

"I don't expect that. Just don't strip him back down to having nothing, please. It's abandonment, pure and simple. You're his _family_!"

Annie nodded, tears swimming. At the tiny movement of her ghostly head they spilled down her cheeks, leaving silvery trails. Of course, Mitchell was one of her _boys_ - "We won't turn our backs," she promised resolutely. Beside her, George nodded stiffly. He wasn't speaking for Nina, of course, but then, it wasn't Nina who Mitchell thought of in his darkest moments. It was George and Annie he had tried so hard to stay good for. If they still held that power over him, then they would use it. Taking themselves from him now would be like pulling the rug out from under someone already on their last leg and wobbling unsteadily. The proverbial nail in the coffin, so to speak. It was as good as a stake to the heart. He wasn't forgiving Mitchell, exactly, but it was at the very least their duty to see him through this last effort.

"You do what you have to to help him," said George somberly. "Show him whatever it is that you do. Then we'll see."

"Thank you," Elise smiled tightly. It was a start in the right direction, but now Mitchell had to help himself. She looked anxiously over to where he was standing, shoulders slumped dejectedly.

Mitchell had drifted farther down the room to avoid overhearing anything else as brutally stinging as the last words he had heard Annie say. He was standing in front of a two-dimensional palm tree, staring at the tropical scene without really seeing it. Elise crept up behind him almost timidly and wrapped her arms around his waist. He didn't move.

"Come on," she said, trying to start him towards the door with a gentle tug at his hips.

He shook his head and stood firm. "I want to know," he said slowly. "How long has it been?"

Elise was still hungry, that was the irony. She could have happily taken out a busload of unsuspecting - or suspecting, hell, it was always better sport when your prey understood what was coming - humans at that very moment. That was the danger in going so long without blood. When you slipped up, and God knew you eventually did, the damage was catastrophic. You didn't wind up nipping off to the pub for some drunkard in an alley that no one was likely to miss, you emptied entire mass-transit lines of their passengers and painted the walls with whatever was left. "If I'm recalling correctly, it's been about fifty-one years. Nineteen-sixty-two-ish? Sixty-three? I don't know, the sixties were a bit of a blur."

Mitchell turned and stared. Fifty-one years. The most he'd ever managed was eight, and that was only if you ignored the occasional fuck-up. Lauren, for example. He wished George had just staked him when he'd had the chance. He'd been at this nightmare life too long, he didn't have the strength for one more try. "Fine," he said blandly. Elise recognized the change in his demeanor immediately. He sounded resigned but completely lacking in his usual emotion. He had lost that hopeful edge long ago and now not even guilt or self-loathing was apparent in his voice. He was blank. "Let's get this over with," Mitchell said. Without another word to any of them he stalked to the door and stood waiting.

Elise looked one last time at George. He understood that she was looking for conformation that he would be open when Mitchell returned. In his indecision, he managed only a non-commital shrug paired with a nod as a response. Even he didn't know exactly what it meant. Elise shook her head as though disappointed with a favorite child. George felt a wash of shame, but held his ground. Everything was still too raw. They needed time to let things settle.

Frowning, Elise followed Mitchell to the door. She took his arm and glanced discreetly out the corner of her eye. She didn't like what she saw. His face was wiped clean, almost slack, as if he had lost all interest in himself and anything that might concern his future. She led him out the door. He didn't look back at either George or Annie. Still wearing his new cloak of lassitude, he gave Elise complete control, letting her steer him where she might.

Elise tumbled various scenarios around in her head. It wouldn't work with Mitchell like this, drowning in apathy and unwilling to fight for himself. He had to want it. Somehow, someway, she was going to have to pull him out of this depression or there was no sense in even trying. Slowly, she began to form a simple plan.

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**PS: There's bound to be some people drawing 'Twilight' parallels, but I swear, animals just seem a common sense thing to try. I know I would have, and if I had, what would I have grabbed? The nearest, easiest thing possible. So why wouldn't animal blood work if I noshed on my poodle? Domestication, that's my theory. And who hunts down a wild animal for their first experiment? Absolutely no one. We do what's most convenient first and go from there if it shows any promise, right?**

**Review beg! Pretty please? It will totally help anchor me in this fic, I promise!**


	5. Chapter 5, Low Down

**AN: All the usual apologies for my long-spaced updates! Enjoy! Review!**

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Chapter 5 - Low Down

You don't have to speak, I feel.

Emotional landscapes ... And you push me up to this

State of emergency,

How beautiful to be.

_- Bjork_

But I won't rot, I won't rot

Not this mind and not this heart,

I won't rot.

_- Mumford & Sons_

Early evening light flared across the windshield of the black Land Rover parked at the curb of the sadly defunct B&B on the corner. The sharply sloped street was painted a Kinkade-esque wash of dusky rose and gold. Two vampires stood on the sidewalk as if transfixed. Elise squinted and blinked at the bright glare as it reflected off the slanted glass directly into her sensitive eyes. She harbored a vague recollection of there being a pair of sunglasses in the glove box.

Beside Elise stood Mitchell, impassive and dull. He hadn't so much as flinched in the strong sun, and Elise sneaked an anxious glance his way. His expression was empty, bare of emotion; no frown or knitted brows marred the marble lines of his face. He seemed to have entered a near-catatonic state, and Elise was growing more and more concerned.

Elise opened the Rover's passenger door and waited. Mitchell showed no sign that he had noticed. There might have been an empty parking space where the Rover was, for all the interest he showed. His eyes were unfocused and muddled.

"Mitchell, don't be like this," Elise said sadly, still waiting for him to climb into the vehicle. "You're only making things harder than they need to be." After it became apparent her wait was futile, Elise wrapped one slender arm around Mitchell's waist and steered him to the open door. She helped him slide into the leather seat. Mitchell sat down with his hands in his lap, never once looking at her. Checking first to make sure that Mitchell's booted feet were clear, Elise slammed his door, out of frustration as much as to test his response.

Mitchell didn't so much as blink. His pale face stared straight ahead, immobile and strangely gold in the tinted light that beamed through the thick film of dust that had settled on the window glass from the dirt roads Elise had driven earlier. For a moment he looked fully human, as if the light had warmed his stagnant circulatory system and sent fresh blood pumping with renewed vitality through his long-cool veins. The pleasant illusion was ruined by the dead weight that walled off his eyes; they were colder than the eyes of any living thing could ever possibly be. Elise's heart plunged; no one knew the effect this dark, twisted life of theirs could have on the mind as well as she. But Mitchell was stronger than this. He had to be. She'd had him pegged as a survivor from the start.

Elise climbed into the drivers seat, wincing again in the wicked glint of the sun. She reached across Mitchell to open the glove box, her arm brushing against the knuckles of his hands where they rested loosely on his knees. He didn't so much as glance down. She opened the compartment and dug through a typical midden of glove box items; registration (out of date), insurance information (lapsed), receipts, owners manuals, scrap papers and a handful of ink pens, one of which had exploded at some point over the last decade. Elise sighed heavily and withdrew her hand, sans sunglasses and streaked with black ink. She wiped the ink off as best she could on one of the wordless scraps of paper. Jamming the keys into the ignition, she pulled the Rover onto the street.

Miles later, after the houses had thinned to occasional blemishes on the landscape, Elise chanced another look at her passenger. She thought she saw a slight flicker of movement in Mitchell's brown eyes, as if he were following their progress but trying not to let it show. Elise thought back to the night they'd shared on the seafront. He had spoken of himself and his past. It had helped her then. She had been adrift in a sea of unreality and he had offered himself as a mooring. That selfless, personal disclosure, so open and honest, was probably the only thing that could have made it through the tangled skein of her mind then. Now, with Mitchell slipping further into himself, it was all she could think that might tether him.

She drove fast, hoping to elicit some kind of response, even alarm, but Mitchell turned stonily to the window. He didn't seem to notice the world as it spun crazily outside the glass. Elise reached for his cold hand in the failing light. "I lived here before," she began, low and uncertain. "Back when I was human, I mean. Not many people know that. It feels safe here, like home, even after all these years. Centuries I've spent away from this land, but it calls me back time and again." She stopped, momentarily lost. It was difficult to talk about yourself after you'd slipped out of the practice. She was too used to lurking in shadow; volunteering personal information was a dangerous indulgence, one Elise didn't feel she could often afford. Information had a way of being handled as a weapon, but somehow she felt she could trust Mitchell.

"You probably know of my people as the Picts. We lived by the sea, and off the land. I was Eithne then, but the name has fallen out of favor as of late. When you've lived as long as I have, you have to reinvent yourself from time to time, so 'Elise' I became." Was he listening? She couldn't tell. He could be asleep for all she knew, reclined in his seat, still facing the window. Somehow, she didn't think so, though.

"I could watch the sea for days. The enveloping mist and the sting of salt air, the way the ebb-tide sucks so greedily at the sand, as if hoping to pull the entire world out to sea. By the time George found me, I had forgotten the way it made me feel, so awash with power, yet small and insignificant all at once. The sea puts us in our place. We vampires like to think we're the upper echelon when it comes to power, but in the grand scheme we're nothing but blood-thirsty fleas. Parasites, on the hide of the world," she laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound.

Elise took a turn too fast and Mitchell's head rolled listlessly over his shoulder to face her. His usually warm eyes were cool and glazed. Unable to think of anything else to say, Elise fell silent. Instead, she squeezed Mitchell's hand, running her thumb over his rough wool glove. No gentle pressure answered her. She might have been holding stone. She drove the rest of the way without speaking.

Eventually, Elise turned off the main road. In the muted dusk, Mitchell could just make out the dirt track where he had dropped George on that fateful night. Before the trees closed in completely, Elise steered the Rover into a hidden depression in the trees and rolled to a slow stop. Springy young branches whipped back into place as they passed, hiding the high SUV from view of the dirt road.

A heavy silence pressed in as the engine cut out. Its sudden intensity was jarring. Mitchell wasn't used to the insulated hush of the woods, having lived so long in cities for their practical appeal. After all, a predator usually shared its habitat with its prey, or at least overlapped boundaries. In an unconnected ribbon of thought, Mitchell saw himself as one of Elise's domesticated creatures, lifeless and dull, all spark of life stamped out. Elise was something feral and different, at home where he never could be. At _peace_ with what she was.

Elise slid down to the ground and dropped the keys onto her seat, then walked around to open Mitchell's door. He made no move to exit, so she took his hands, pulling him around until he was forced to either step down or allow himself to tumble out headfirst. Wisely, he picked the former. Once out, Elise propped him against the Rover. He stood with his head down, avoiding her concerned stare.

Elise stepped in and wound her arms around Mitchell's waist, as if meaning to lend him strength. A salt-spiced breeze whispered through the trees, tousling Mitchell's dark hair. His cool breath fanned over her cheeks, indistinguishable from the sea air. Elise stood on her toes. Gently at first, then with growing intensity, Elise kissed him. She searched for some flicker of arousal, but his lips remained tight and indifferent. She tried again, with equal success.

Elise shoved the impassive Mitchell sharply away. He hit the side of the Rover with a jarring thud but still offered no reaction. "You said you would wait," she cried thickly. "You can't leave me now, alone. If you go away, if you close yourself off, whatever happens will be on _your_ head!"

Again she pushed her cold lips against his. "Come back to me, Mitchell." Her voice became a hardened hiss; "Come back!" It was a command. She tore at him, savage and unrelenting, refusing to accept his total lack of response. Her fangs slipped their sheaths and pierced his lips as she kissed, goading him to fight. Tasting his own blood, Mitchell closed his eyes against the onslaught. He understood what she was trying to do; She was baiting him, as if he were a reluctant combatant in a cage fight. With perfect stoicism, he shut himself away, refusing to rise as she wanted.

Elise broke off in frustration. She stepped back, eyes glittering dangerously. In a calculated movement so swift that Mitchell could barely track the path of her arm, she brought her hand up and raked it across his cheek. Blood welled up along the furrows carved by her nails. Mitchell stumbled back, his hand flying to his face. Elise saw the black flash of his eyes in the instant before Mitchell could retreat and push his anger away. She laughed coldly. "I won't let you become a coward, Mitchell._ I can see who you really are_."

She gathered her hand into a fist and drew her arm back to strike again, this time checking none of her considerable power. With bone-jarring force she struck his jaw, rocketing his head back against the metal side of the SUV. Mitchell hit hard and went down fast, long legs crumpling beneath him. He sat for a moment, dazedly shaking his head as he blinked away stars and fought against something savage and unnamed rising inside of him. A black, furious something that snarled for release.

It was a brief struggle. The monster won, as it always would. Mitchell was on his feet in an instant. An alarming transformation had taken place; Elise found herself staring into burning eyes filled with cruelty, as black as jet and every bit as hard. They smoldered within the pale halo of Mitchell's face, glinting minutely in the dying strokes of twilight. She had what she had wanted; John Mitchell on high-alert, the perfect predator, ready to strike. Mitchell rubbed his jaw. He began to circle, mouth pulling into a dark show of fangs. Elise laughed huskily. "I knew you were there," she purred triumphantly, taking a measured step back.

Mitchell advanced, cautiously judging his quarry. Elise countered his movements at first, taking two steps back for every one of his long strides forward. "Oh Mitchell, you don't think you can take _me_, do you?" she goaded. She was backing steadily into the trees, carefully keeping the distance equal between them. The taste and smell of blood-salt and sea-salt were becoming confused in Mitchell's mind, fueling his hunger and rage. He answered Elise with a snarl and a testing feint, which Elise easily evaded. She stepped behind a nearby oak, peering around its wide trunk like a teasing woodland creature. "No, you've let yourself become too soft, too... _domestic_." Mitchell lunged again. Elise laughed and spun aside.

She continued her performance, repeatedly allowing Mitchell opportunity for attack, then nimbly twisting away once he lunged, keeping tantalizingly just beyond reach. It was not always obvious who was playing the cat and who the mouse. Mitchell's fury increased with each near miss. He came at her again and again, shaking with adrenaline and mounting anger. As in his nightmare, his fingers brushed the ends of her flying hair before she danced away. She pushed and spurred him on, until he felt himself slipping easily along with the heady pull of chaos and rage. He felt intoxicated, completely inhuman, and for once did not care.

Elise carried on, always leading Mitchell deeper into the woods, always one maddening step ahead. Eventually, though, Elise seemed to tire. Mitchell timed his attack; she spun away, a moment too late. Merciless fingers burrowed into the tender flesh of her upper arm. Elise found herself yanked off her feet and propelled backwards as Mitchell flung her aside like a broken toy. She slammed against a tree, hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Vampires might not _need_ air, but it was still an uncomfortable experience to be forcibly robbed of it. She sank into a heap among rustling leaves, desperately catching at weak, fleeting breaths. Still gasping, she looked up. Dark, angry eyes gazed back. Awash with blood-lust, rage, and desire, Mitchell advanced. Elise shivered in response, not out of fear, but with hungry anticipation. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to give into her own dark wishes, but now was not the time; Mitchell needed this too much. She had to downplay her desire.

Meaning to continue their game of cat and mouse, Elise scrambled up from the ground and broke into a clumsy run. Mitchell surprised her with his speed; A hand caught her hair, spinning her about. Elise rolled with the turn, bringing her fist up cocked and ready, but with a vicious yank to her hair, Mitchell pulled her off balance before she could strike. Bright pain flared across her scalp. Elise bit back a cry and stumbled sideways, falling into his grasp. Gripping her roughly by her shoulders, Mitchell pushed until he backed Elise against a tree, the same she had hit before. Rough bark grazed her spine as she ground against the trunk, leaving a raw trail down her back. It had drawn blood; Elise could smell it, and feel its dampness on the back of her shirt.

Mitchell smelled it as well and froze. The smell wasn't fresh, nor warm or living, yet its iron tang still entranced. Water sprang into his mouth, pooling around his tongue. His first instinct was to fight against his sudden thirst. Elise felt him tense, his hands becoming hard and tighter on her arms. Then, slowly, he began to relax. He was giving in, greeting the sensation like an old friend. He gathered a thick hank of her curls into his fist, wrapping the strands over and under his hand as if shortening a rope. Keeping a deliberate, steady pressure, he pulled, forcing Elise's head back until until she was looking up into his eyes. No guilt showed there now, or mercy; his eyes were only black mirrors over sadistic pools. She raised her chin, trying to work some defiance into the gesture, but she knew her eyes were wide on his. Mitchell showed his teeth, enjoying her weakness._ If sharks could smile_, thought Elise hazily through the beginnings of unease. The balance of power was shifting in his favor, something she hadn't anticipated or even thought possible. In the vampire scheme of things, Elise, being older, was the more powerful of the two; power and knowledge increased with age, which was why the Old Ones were to be feared and respected. Her strength should have easily bested Mitchell's.

Her arms were still free and she tried to shove him away. Maintaining his grip on her hair, Mitchell dragged her with him as he stumbled back before forcing her once more against the tree. The damned tree seemed to be the start and end of her every bid for freedom. Mitchell pressed one forearm across her throat. She choked out a gasp and clawed at him, but he did not relent and she was pinned fast.

"Is this what you wanted?" Mitchell taunted, his voice dark and soft as an airy whisper of black silk. His breath was surprisingly hot in her ear. Elise dug in her nails and felt the muscles of his arm bunch beneath her fingers. With an angry hiss, he crushed his mouth to hers. Elise wriggled uselessly, planting her palms against his chest. She doubled her efforts when she heard the metallic scrape of his belt as he slipped the buckle free. He pressed his taut body against hers and she felt his hand move between them against the flat of her stomach as he undid the button of his jeans. Before she could stop herself, Elise tilted her hips forward, grinding. She struggled to suppress a moan; she had a part to play, and it wasn't the role of impassioned paramour. She hoped he would take the eager thrust of her hips as a struggle for freedom. She wrenched her face away from his kiss to strengthen the impression.

Mitchell's teeth grazed her jaw as she turned away. He let out a low, smoky chuckle. "Don't be like that, love. You're runnin' hot and cold, I don't know what to think. _You're only making things harder than they need to be._" He echoed her earlier words in a husky growl. The hand against her stomach moved down, then up, stroking her under her tunic, lazily searching for the waist of her leggings. Once found, Mitchell hooked the thin fabric band with his thumb and pulled it low. The arm at her throat loosened marginally as his fingers slipped inside. Elise closed her eyes. She had to act now, before the seductive curl of his voice and the feel of his skin pulled her under. His fingers dove deeper, fanning out their search. Even with her eyes closed, Elise knew he was watching, drinking in her reaction. It was all connected to the hunger they felt, to that driving need. The time was right; Mitchell was right where he needed to be for what was to come. She had to act now.

Elise brought her elbow up sharply into Mitchell's chin, catching him off guard. His head snapped back with a grunt of surprise. His hand slid free as he staggered away, and Elise almost groaned with undisguised longing. She had to end this, now, while she had regained the upper-hand - and before she caved to desire.

Darting forward, cat-quick, Elise fetched Mitchell an open-handed, stinging slap across the face. Her audacity was rewarded with an immediate bellow. Not waiting to see his reaction to this final insult, Elise spun and plunged into the woods. She ran flat-out, compelling Mitchell to follow her deeper and deeper into the dark crush of trees.

Panting slightly, Elise pushed on, snake-like tongue out and searching, as though tasting the air. Despite the tangle of low-growing brush that caught at his boots, Mitchell pounded swiftly after. Whatever she searched for was not immediately forthcoming, and Elise was growing desperate. She was beginning to fear her luck had run out when the wind brought the familiar scent she had been seeking. It was a tantalizing odor, dank, and wild, and musky, and she knew that Mitchell could smell it and feel its pull, though he wouldn't yet understand what it was. She veered to follow the scent to its source.

They ran along a high ridge of woods partially surrounding a field that opened like a pit below. Mitchell was oblivious to his surroundings; he was only aware of the furious crash of blood in his ears mingled with the sound of Elise's fleet footsteps as she darted nimbly through the maze of trunks and brush. He was fully a creature of instinct now, restrained by no conscious thoughts. He _would_ be satisfied. With singular focus, he tore doggedly after his prey.

The intensity of the scent increased. Elise sprinted ahead, determinedly leading Mitchell toward the source. She had played a dangerous game, purposely baiting and goading him into a state of full blood-lust. The rest would be up to him. Now that she had brought Mitchell to this point, he would likely attack anything with a pulse.

With a spray of dark forest earth, Elise skidded to a halt. They had reached the curve of ridge that marked the graduated drop into the field. She crouched silently, peering down into the bowl. In the middle of the rough grass and neglected crops, she could make out several graceful, four-footed shapes that seemed to swim in the heavy silver mist that had settled over the low ground. She inhaled deeply to make sure that she and Mitchell, the hunters, were upwind. Behind her, Mitchell slowed, searching in the dusky gloom now that he could no longer judge her whereabouts by her footfalls. She stood straight, so that he could see her. He emerged slowly from the trees. She let her eyes go black. No longer teasing, she turned and met him, every inch the hunter he was. She leaned up on point to whisper in his ear. He leaned down slightly so that her lips brushed against his earlobe. "Mitchell," her voice was husky, coaxing. "It's time to feed."

Mitchell shook his head stubbornly. His eyes shifted momentarily to earthy brown, that part of him that was still muddled and confused... still warmly human. "No, I don't want-" he began. Elise stopped his mouth with a hard kiss. This time there was no sluggish response. He returned her kiss immediately, with passion still hot from the chase. Once she judged him ready, Elise drew back. His eyes were angry, thinking she was toying with him once more, but it was no game this time. Elise thrust Mitchell towards the embankment.

The smell immediately caught Mitchell's attention as he stumbled forward. It was familiar, yet like nothing he had ever smelled before; heady and strong, the scent of a life waiting, but not wanting, to be quenched. His long-fought predatory instincts told him that this was right. There was life down there, full of determination and intent on survival; a life that would not let go without a fight. Seduced by the intoxicating aroma of true prey, Mitchell crept forward. The dark shapes paused in the mist, sensing. The scent intensified. A crucial moment was upon them. Eyes black, fangs extended, Mitchell seized that moment and lunged.

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**PS: This took about ninety revisions, so I would soooooo appreciate your reviews! Thanks in advance, you're all so awesome!**


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